


Grimoire

by smilebackwards



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilebackwards/pseuds/smilebackwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s a note that says equine saliva can be substituted for the goat blood,” Crane says helpfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grimoire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flourish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flourish/gifts).



> Thanks to sinesofinsanity for the beta. Remaining mistakes are my own.

Abbie pulls up to Corbin‘s cabin to find the door thrown open, the windows wide. 

The entire house smells acrid, burnt. Abbie thinks of cauterization, the blackened skin of Corbin’s neck. “Crane?” she calls, gun leading around the corner.

Crane is in the tiny back kitchen, staring at the microwave as if it has somehow wronged him.

Abbie sighs, relief and exasperation in equal measure. “What exactly happened here?” she asks, holstering her gun.

“I was trying to make your modern version of popcorn,” Crane explains. “Laverne down at the station was kind enough to share a batch with me last week. It looked as though the sheriff had all the necessary tools and ingredients, but perhaps I missed a subtlety somewhere.”

Abbie looks at the melted lump in the microwave. “You forgot to remove the plastic wrap,” she diagnoses.

“Plastic again,” Crane says, disgustedly. “Does it exist to thwart human endeavor?”

Abbie shakes her head. She grabs the Pop Secret box off the counter and tips out the second package, turns it over to show Crane the _IMPORTANT: Remove plastic wrap and unfold bag_ warning, outlined in caution yellow. “I suppose it’s comforting to know that men haven’t actually devolved,” Abbie says. “Two hundred years ago you still didn’t read directions.”

Crane's expression suggests he’s winding up to an hour-long dissertation on literacy and gender roles in colonial America so Abbie quickly cuts him off. “Let’s go. Someone dropped a body on Westover. The officer who called it in said it was weird so Irving’s saving it for us.”

“Kind of him,” Crane says, gathering up his coat.

-

“When you said ‘dropped,’” Crane says, staring down at the body on the caved in roof of an old Chevy and then up at the twelve story apartment building it’s parked in front of, “I didn’t realize you meant quite so literally.”

“Could be he jumped,” Abbie shrugs, circling around the car to get a better vantage. “Or he could have been pushed.” She points to the skin of the victim’s forearm, reddened and cracked in the shape of a handprint. The fingermarks are too long, tapered to points at the ends like claws. “I think this might be the weird the officer was describing.”

Crane takes a sharp breath.

“That mean something to you?” Abbie asks.

“Chemosh,” Crane says, darkly. “One of the Horseman's demonic henchmen. He slaughtered dozens of Masons before he was defeated. Washington himself barely escaped with his life. The bottom of his coat burnt up to the waist and poor Nelson’s tail was singed off entirely. Although, honestly, the man went through coats like water.”

Abbie gives Crane the look reserved for when he mentions fun facts about his BFF the first President of the United States of America and asks, practically, “So how did you defeat this Chemosh last time?”

“Well, to be quite precise, _we_ didn’t,” Crane admits. “It was the witches who sent him back to the fiery pit from whence he came. If we are to succeed, we’ll need their grimoire.”

“What good will a spell book do us?” Abbie says. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get an invitation to Hogwarts.”

“I assume that is an institute of magical learning,” Crane says, looking to her questioningly.

“Yes,” Abbie says.

Crane nods. “Certainly some of the casting would require an innate magical aptitude that neither of us possess,” he agrees. “But they also kept a record of potions and symbols and the like, things that any demon-averse person might make use of. The grimoire would have been held by the head of the coven. Considering our recent discoveries, I think it safe to assume that would have been my old friend Lachlan. And having seen the scorched earth of his estate and the wrath of the creature previously guarding it firsthand, it would seem likely that the book still resides there.”

“All right,” Abbie says, waving over an officer to take charge of the crime scene. “Let’s find it.”

-

"You're really sure we need this book?" Abbie asks, after she's tripped over an overgrown root for the eighth time. The bottom of her jeans are soaked in supernatural plant monster blood up to the ankle.

Crane chips at another wall with the crowbar Abbie keeps in her trunk. "Unfortunately, this is the most readily accessible source of knowledge about demonic expulsion that I'm aware of. But perhaps one of the professors at your Hogwarts could offer some illumination?" 

"I was kidding, Crane," Abbie says, stepping around a hole in the floor. "Hogwarts is fictional. Most people don't even believe in magic."

"Ah," Crane says, "Well then," and swings the crowbar again. This time it crashes through the wall easily enough that Crane's arm follows it through to the elbow. Abbie pulls away chunks of crumbling drywall to unearth a hidden alcove, walls trimmed with faded purple velvet. The grimoire rests inside atop a wooden podium. The leather cover is coated with a sheen of dust. Abbie blows it away to reveal a pentagram traced out in gold leaf, bright against the black background.

“Splendid,” Crane says, reaching to thumb the book open. When it resists, he frowns and pulls at it with both hands to no avail. There’s no hook or latch holding it closed; it’s as though every page is stuck together with glue.

“An interesting new conundrum,” Crane muses.

-

“Mills,” Irving acknowledges. “Where’s your time-traveler?”

Abbie rolls her eyes left and Irving follows her gaze. “We should probably look into paying him at some point, sir,” Abbie says, watching Crane beg quarters off an indulgent Laverne so he can get gumballs out of the ancient machine that’s occupied a corner of the lobby since Corbin was a rookie.

“I’ll let you fill out the paperwork on that,” Irving says. “So what’s the verdict on the body? Homicide?” He lowers his voice. “Special circumstances homicide?”

“Chemosh,” Crane replies promptly, around a mouthful of chewing gum. “One of the Horseman’s captains. We’re…acquainted.”

Abbie points to the grimoire on her desk, where it’s acting as a paperweight for her case files since that’s essentially all it’s useful for at the moment. “Crane thinks that might be helpful, but there’s a bit of snag.”

Irving eyes the book dubiously. “Written in Latin kind of snag or requires ritual sacrifice kind of snag?” he asks, reaching for it. 

Abbie’s going to let him figure it out for himself when the book doesn’t open, but the moment Irving touches it there’s a sound like a lock turning over. A gust of unexpected wind sweeps through the office and the grimoire blows open—pages rustling to land on an inked drawing of Death on his pale horse—like Crane hadn’t been systematically trying to pry it open with progressively larger metal implements for the past hour. Abbie's trusty crowbar is bent almost in half, resting sadly beside the empty mug of coffee Crane'd swilled back angrily.

“Whatever just happened,” Irving says slowly, “we will never discuss it again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Abbie says, giving the book over to Crane’s eager hands.

-

According to the grimoire, there are three possible options for banishing Chemosh back to Hell. 

The first is only effective during a lunar eclipse, which won’t occur for another five months. 

The second involves an ancient Coptic prayer, mistletoe, and six pints of goat blood. 

“There’s a note that says equine saliva can be substituted for the goat blood,” Crane says helpfully. Abbie has the sinking feeling that he considers this possibility the frontrunner.

The third option requires Crane to draw a series of concentric circles around a seven pointed star and Abbie to load her gun with iron bullets blessed by a bewildered eighty year old vicar, which is why, four hours later, they’re sprinting through the subterranean tunnels beneath the precinct, the dark shadow of Chemosh in hot pursuit.

“Lieutenant, now!” Crane shouts as Chemosh steps on the devil’s trap. 

Abbie turns and empties her clip into what passes for center mass. 

Chemosh screams in rage, hellfire snapping in his eyes, and Abbie takes a step back, waiting to see if he’ll break the circle. He manages to stutter forward but the bullet holes in his chest are creeping wider, like the ripples in water after a stone throw, and in less than a minute he’s disappeared entirely.

Crane closes the grimoire and brushes chalk dust off his hands. “Well,” he says, pleased. “I followed those directions rather nicely, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?” 

Abbie breathes.

-

Watching Crane’s ongoing fight with the 21st century gives Abbie a sense of mild vicarious whiplash. In the space of an afternoon, she’s seen him throw himself flat to the ground when a plane passed low overhead, eat three packs of Pop Rocks, topple the display for a new biography of Benedict Arnold after reading the jacket, and play Angry Birds on her smartphone for two straight hours.

An hour ago, she went to the store for milk, leaving him peacefully on the couch with a nice, safe re-run of _I Love Lucy_ only to come back to find him halfway through an episode of _The Walking Dead_ , clutching a throw pillow like a life preserver. 

“Is this truly a projected future scenario?” Crane asks, horrified eyes glued to the screen where a herd of zombies are converging on a farmhouse. “Is it because of what’s in the tap water?”

Abbie reaches for a handful of popcorn—abandoned beside Crane’s left elbow—which she’d carefully supervised the making of. “Uh-huh,” she says, deadpan. “If the Horsemen could just wait a good five or ten years, they probably wouldn’t even have to bother with all this drama.”

Crane looks at her sideways to gauge her sincerity and finds her smiling, popcorn held out in peace offering. “Yes, well,” he says, smiling back, “Where would be the fun in that?”


End file.
